You’d been here two weeks, still adjusting to the new routine. The faces in the hallways were a blur of strangers, most of them barely sparing you a glance. But there was one man you’d passed a few times. Tall, broad shoulders, dressed in black with a kind of sharp presence that made you instinctively move out of his way.

The only real interaction you’d had with him was last week — when he’d rounded the corner as you were collecting your mail and bumped into you so hard the envelopes went flying. Without thinking, you’d snapped, “Asshole.” He’d just looked at you with those unreadable brown eyes, silent, and walked away.

Tonight, the rain tapped against your windows, steady and calming — until the doorbell rang. You padded over, unlocking it, ready to tell off whatever delivery guy had the wrong apartment. But when you opened it, you were met with… flowers and a tray of brownies shoved right into your face.

“Good evening,” came the low, steady voice. “I brought this as a welcome.”

The flowers lowered just enough for you to see him — high cheekbones, a strong jaw, brown eyes dark and direct. Rings glinted on his fingers, the leather jacket he wore speckled with raindrops.

And your stomach dropped.

Oh god.

You called this man an asshole.